


Sealing the deal

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Deals, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, First Time, Frenemies, Hand Jobs, Innocence, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Opposites Attract, Scheming Castiel, Season/Series 06, Trolling, crowstiel, just hanging out, look at their fucking love connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I do not have a soul,” Castiel repeats. He narrows his eyes.</p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter, bucko. My treehouse, my rules. Pucker up, or no dice.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealing the deal

The first time, Castiel resists. He is impatient, and he calls him an ass. Angels, he reminds him, don’t have souls to sell.

Apparently this doesn’t mean they can’t make deals.

Crowley, it turns out, is as interesting as he paints himself, if not in the same way.  “Handshake deal?” He says.  Part of Castiel had always somehow expected to find himself in Hell in the end, but he’d never expected a guided tour. It’s more organised than he’d imagined. There’s more lift music. Crowley smirks, and continues smoothly, “Oh, darling, no. Send me half of the souls in Purgatory, and seal it with a kiss.”

“I do not have a soul,” Castiel repeats. He narrows his eyes.

Crowley is shorter than him and shouldn’t look so imposing, but it’s like all the potential darkness in this strip-lit nightmare of a room has homed in upon him, lending his unshakeable insouciance extra weight and gravity. Even making a deal – that word again – of this magnitude, he exudes cocky certainty and it makes Castiel feel… annoyed. “Doesn’t matter, bucko. My treehouse, my rules. Pucker up, or no dice.”

“If you try any tricks, I will destroy you,” Castiel says, levelly. The blood sings in his temples, ringing anger and frustration.

Crowley affects an innocent pout, all wide eyes and hands held up where Castiel can see them. “You don’t have to flirt, pet, you’ve already got my attention.” Their lips barely brush. Crowley says, “There, see – not that painful, was it? Admit it, you even enjoyed it a tiny wee bit.”

“I did not enjoy it.” The words are out before Castiel can think them through and the mocking twinkle in Crowley’s eye is almost enough to make him blast him through sheer temper. But he restrains himself, seething. And something interesting happens. He sees it, then, in Crowley’s eyes, behind that maddening glint; a hungry red gleam.

 *

At first he doesn’t understand why Crowley asks for so many ‘deals’. They spend ever more time together, first plotting, then planning and finally just… spending time. They both want to stay out of the way, so it seems only logical to stay out of the way in the same place.

The second time, Crowley insists on another kiss. “I don’t see the need to torment them in this way.” Castiel says. The subject on Crowley’s gurney opens his mouth and screams again, loud enough to feel it in your teeth. Castiel closes his eyes, just for a moment. Crowley, wiping a bloody poker on his apron, says, “How about this. You nip out on a drinks run for me, and I’ll put Eddie Munster here out of his misery. Shake on it?” He doesn’t offer his hand, but he looks expectant and Castiel snorts in disgust and turns his head away. But only for a moment. He knows the drill.

“This is unnecessary,” he observes, unnecessarily.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I don’t make the rules, chuckles. Well, actually, I do - but it’s tradition, and tradition is very important in our business, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

“Hrmmm.” Castiel understands, but he certainly doesn’t appreciate. A pinch of the irritation he feels makes it into his answering grunt and he watches curiously as Crowley smiles in reaction to his pique. It’s interesting. Castiel is a quick learner, and he learns quickly that the easiest way to control Crowley is to fake a rise. To feign reluctance. He shakes his head, slowly, and watches mesmerised as that spark flares once more in Crowley’s dark eyes.

“Play hard to get all you want, princess, but you know you’ll give in, in the end.”

Castiel sighs, making a good show of it, and leans down. Their lips press, lightly. The test subject’s scream is cut short as, without a backward glance, Crowley rams the poker into his eyesocket and out through the back of his skull.

 *

The reasons for the deals get more spurious, and more frequent. Castiel almost expects the word ‘deal?’ to follow every sentence Crowley utters to him; almost anticipates it. At first, it’s like any battle. He uses his ingenuousness as a weapon to wrong-foot his new partner; like opponents in fencing - both combatant and compliant, a to and fro of strategy and gameplay.  And it’s interesting, learning from this study. Demons and humans, so similar in their games, so dissimilar to angels. It’s like chemistry, these volatile emotions, infinite blends and possibilities: experiments, like mixing potions; this one to make you laugh, this one to make you cry. From the simple, angel-friendly, purity of love and hate come myriad divided strands, seemingly tangled in their complexity yet all so perfectly formed, like the molecules that make up the very universe. The experience, the feeling, of each blend is nigh indescribable, so much more than the sum of its parts. Love plus hate equals ambivalence, or desire, or jealousy, in different measures… Castiel experiments like a scientist of the heart and his findings are existence-changing.

After he sees that red light in Crowley’s eyes, he replaces his tie with a scarlet one and Crowley stares in undisguised amazement. “New threads, sweetheart? That colour really brings out your baby blues.” Red, like danger, blood, fire. Passion. His tone is customarily mocking but his stare is too direct, held too long, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips and if Castiel is good at anything it’s holding a gaze. He schools his expression and tone to neutrality and says, “Thank you.” Inside, something unfamiliar flips, slowly. Surprising Crowley is one of the most fascinating and rewarding things he’s experienced. It… tickles. He would almost call it a pleasure. Controlling the reaction so that Crowley believes it’s all accidental, well: duplicity is its own reward.

“Keep wearing that in future,” Crowley says, his voice low. “Deal?” And Castiel gives a tiny nod and leans in without fuss or delay, his eyelids slipping closed. At first Crowley tasted of corruption. Of blood and ashes and heat, of darkness and fire. Then, deeper – oh, the kisses deepened with Castiel’s involvement. His _implication_. Something more human showed, then, and Crowley’s breath bequeathed the memory of expensive whisky, of cigarette smoke and heathen incense. Now, Crowley’s mouth opens beneath his and his warm lips taste of rebellion. Of choice. And with each new deal Castiel throws himself further in, grabbing Crowley’s lapels and parting his lips around a groan.

 *

"Why was the original method of induction abandoned?"

"Original method?" Crowley doesn’t look up from the magazine he’s flicking through. They do this often, now. Chill-time, Crowley calls it. Where they can ‘kick back’ and ‘relax’ in Crowley’s lounge, and Crowley can drink, and window-shop the gossip mags for failing celebrity careers in need of a pick-me-up, and Castiel can do ‘whatever it is he does’. What Castiel does, mainly, is look at Crowley. Minute revelations happen as Crowley becomes more human to him. Little details - the length of his eyelashes, the solid thickness of muscle in his thighs – become apparent. And so do the human fluctuations of his own vessel; the effects it has on others.

"Yes.” Castiel says. “The original method. Of showing loyalty to a demon.” He lowers his head, fixing his gaze on his hands folded in his lap and his voice is low; almost accusatory.  “It was not a kiss on the lips."

Crowley makes a quiet choking sound on his mouthful of whiskey, but recovers admirably. "Are you referring to the _Osculum Infame_?” Castiel notes, idly, that Crowley’s eyebrows seem to have risen to their apex. “Good God! Terrible Mediaeval garbage. I mean, _really_ \- can you imagine any of the Legions of Hell actually dropping trou’ in public and offering up the old bum for a peck? Undignified doesn't begin it."

Castiel doesn’t raise his head, but he watches Crowley, carefully, his voice light. "It wasn't really a 'peck'. From the material I've read, it involved spreading of the buttocks and presentation of the anus."

And yes, there it is - Crowley's expression is a perfect amalgam of dismay, incredulity and fascination - Castiel is a virtual maestro, conducting this reaction in his unwitting subject! Inside he rejoices, but it's important to the experiment he remain externally neutral. Crowley says, in a voice like he’s been licking nettles, "My, my - somebody needs their mouth washing out with soap."

"It's a statement of fact.” Castiel insists. “I've seen the woodcuts."

Crowley snorts a little laugh. "I’ll _bet_ you have. I've got some etchings too if you fancy them."

"Yes, etchings also, from later primary sources."

The little laugh gains volume and whilst Castiel can't quite work out why, it's pleasing. "You really are something else."

"You still didn't answer my question.” Castiel casts a sly sideways glance. “I thought that you said tradition was essential to this business."

Crowley squints at him. He’s starting to look a little… dangerous? "Are you saying you want to-" This glare is a challenge, Castiel thinks. A 'back off' perhaps, but that tell-tale light is there in his eyes, then just as suddenly the thunderous puzzlement switches to something else that Castiel most definitely cannot identify. "Wait, are you - are you _trolling_ me, angel?"  
The options now are narrowed down to a simple, yet far from easy, polar two: yes, or no. Not counting 'I don't understand the question' which really amounts to no anyway, and is a disingenuousness that is becoming increasingly difficult to get away with given their past few weeks’ in one another’s company. Castiel tilts his head to one side. It's how it works. He pretends innocence and Crowley plays along. But it seems this time he's spent a moment too long mulling over his best response, and in that time the rules have changed. Crowley grunts, frowning. He gives an elegant flick of his wrist and Castiel feels his body launch and crash against the ceiling ten feet away. The breath is slammed from his borrowed lungs and for a second he's stunned in surprise as he slides down the wall to a shaky standing position, pinned there by Crowley's magic. His legs shudder beneath him, from the shock of the assault, or something else. Crowley takes a step towards him, eyes wide and mouth tight. Castiel leans his head back against the wall, watches his advance through lowered lashes. Tentatively, he tenses against his invisible bonds. Struggles a little. Crowley's nostrils flare, barely perceptibly. He takes another step closer. Interesting. Castiel could fight back, they both know it. He could fight back, easily, cast off this petty conjuring with a thought- it's not like he's human, after all. But what if he was? Imagination is a very new thing to Castiel, a brand new shiny infinite vista inside. Just imagine, if he were human. Not only wouldn't he fight, he'd have no choice to. With an exhale, he allows himself to go limp, letting the strength of the magic hold him up. When Crowley reaches him, the spell dissipates with a snap and Castiel slumps bodily into his arms. It takes a second to find his feet again, a second where Crowley is holding him up, pressed to the wall, the only thing stopping him from falling. It's strange how a mortal moment can stretch into an eternity. Their faces are very close and Castiel has learned by now the signs, the delicate little cues that prelude this. He turns his head. Angles it unconsciously. Crowley’s hands are still balled in his coat, even though Castiel has found his feet again. And Crowley's eyelids slip half closed, his lips part just slightly, and he leans into the crook of Castiel's neck. Gentle as a whisper he presses his mouth against his throat and Castiel feels the very tip of a wet tongue against his skin, the barest scrape of teeth and to his surprise he hears an unfamiliar little noise escape his own lips. "I don't understand." His voice sounds odd, rough. "What's the deal?"

"You stop talking. Deal?"

"Yes."

Sometimes surrender is a choice. Sometimes, even to a soldier of heaven, surrender feels good. This kiss isn't a battle. This time it's a siege. Crowley is set to conquer and Castiel, oh he wants to let him. The teeth at his throat pinch harder – not hard enough to mark, but enough to draw a hissing breath from him as Crowley nips a path up to his jaw, then a hand fists in the back of his hair, forcing his head down, and a fierce mouth is pressed against his. He tastes of freedom. Castiel’s lips part, easily, tongues slicking together, becoming one creature. Isn’t this how it should have been all along? A perfect compound of darkness and light, balanced to keep both of their volatile essences neutral. The last thing Castiel can think of right now is smiting _anything_ … maybe if they just do this forever… Crowley licks at his open mouth and Castiel moans, pulls him closer, tugging the tails of his shirt from his tailored pants. They’re both hard, this human arousal that with practice translates from vessel to occupant: he presses his hips forward and receives an answering grunt that sounds only a little begrudging, then a hand is snaking between their bodies, roughly tugging open his fly, and his stomach tenses as that hand touches hot flesh.

He’s experimented on his own before, but not often, and that was not this. This courses through his body, sets him on fire, burning and freezing at once as the breath is knocked from his lungs in a long moan. The jumble of feeling is almost too overwhelming. He feels Crowley smirk against his lips and the hand wrapped around him tightens, starts to stroke. Still war, then. It’s a small satisfaction to see Crowley’s always-immaculate ensemble rumpled, but it _is_ satisfying, and Castiel thinks he likes him like this; dishevelled and wanton and losing control. Castiel is, after all, a fast learner. His hand closes around Crowley’s cock - fat and heavy and silky in his palm – and mimics the rhythm Crowley has set. This must be multi-tasking, this barrage of sensation, of hands and lips and the shiver of every one of his hairs standing on end, the exquisite symphony of nerve endings and adrenalin and serotonin, the ringing clamour inside his chest… “Cas,” whispers Crowley on an exhale and Castiel feels it, this something, surrounding him, drowning him.

“Crowley.” It’s alien on his lips, but it feels… “Oh… I think I’m going to-”

“No need for a blow-by-blow, darling,” says Crowley and his voice is so full of strange affection that all Castiel can do is close his eyes and let go to the sensation, his legs weakening under him, as Crowley catches him around the waist with one arm, the other hand expertly working him. He tries, in his haze of elation, to remember his part of the deal: stroking with novice determination until Crowley’s whole being tenses and thick warmth spills deliciously into Castiel’s palm. Castiel lowers his head, resting their foreheads together. He’s suddenly very aware of the volume of his own breathing. “Neck and neck. Just like the movies.” Crowley murmurs. His fingertips trace a light path up Castiel’s side beneath his shirt, and Castiel shivers.

“That was… adequate?”

“Oh yes. I assure you kitten, that was quite up to standard,” Crowley says. He sounds amused, or maybe just a little out of breath. “Trust me.”

“No.”

Crowley chuckles. Castiel feels it, right through his body, a gentle purring vibration. It feels… warm. Like rare perfumes, these heady blends: desire and contempt, perfectly balanced. Crowley reaches a hand up and with thumb and forefinger gently tilts his chin. Their lips meet again, and Castiel sees, in startling close-up, not a glint of red in Crowley’s eyes but a flood, blotting out any trace of humanity. Red, like blood, fire, passion. Like love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Their love/hate/rivalry/chemistry is my current reason to be.  
> All comments/discussions/prompts/reccs are very much welcomed!
> 
> Please note that this fic has exactly 2666 words and throw me some confetti :p


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